


Redemption

by suave_silver



Series: Of the dreadwolf and a stag [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Not Beta Read, Platonic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suave_silver/pseuds/suave_silver
Summary: Solas seeks a way to return to Thedas. Legolas asks him if it's what he really wants.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Of the dreadwolf and a stag [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659094
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> A tear away chapter from my on-going fic, A wolf in the woodlands. Can be taken seriously or ignored all together.

In a certain light, the last homely house of Rivendell could pass for Skyhold. Though it has no battlements or high mortar walls, with the vast Misty Mountains towering over the Hidden Valley, pink rolling clouds brushing against the treetops of the Cirith pass, the snowy tranquillity of the elven refuge has a nostalgic charm to it that reminds Solas of the ancient Keep. 

Tucked away in the southern wing of Lord Elrond's home, even the great library he dwells in has its own similarities to his old study, though it was truly a structure of its own caliber. The enormous collection housed scrolls, books and artifacts from every Age of Middle Earth - row after row of neatly lined books, spines facing outwards, freshly dusted and arranged. 

With the late afternoon sun trailing slowly throughout the room, casting everything in an orange haze, the familiarity of his new lodgings soothes some of the weariness within his mind. The elegant, scrawling handwriting on the pages before him look less jarring and the swords encased behind glass corvets glint less harshly. 

Perhaps the recognition this place reflects is why he’s so drawn to it. The events from three years ago linger when nothing else occupies his thoughts, like the echo of a thunderstorm overhead but so far away. Ignoring it and passing his days between the densely stacked shelves of his temporary abode brings a small amount of peace and serenity to his heart. 

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding?”

Long arms loop around his shoulders following the teasing question, a chin coming to settle on his shoulder. Solas settles against the back of his seat, against the other draping themselves over the tall armchair. A small smile forms on his lips as he looks up at the other elf wrapping themselves around him.

Suppressing a snort, he turns back in his seat to face the other elf, then corrects him, "This where I’ve been _studying_."

Legolas doesn’t remove himself from the back of his chair and remains bent over it casually, regarding the contents of the weighty tome in his lap before turning his gaze to him.

His sky blue eyes are warm and full of liveliness, watching him with an almost mischievous grin as he hovers above Solas’s shoulder. Butter-coloured blonde hair trails in long braids over his chest, delicately framing his face. Warm breath gently puffs against his cheek with the faintest aroma of honeycakes and sweet fruits.

Then, like breaking a rite, Legolas’s attention turns back to the small pile of books he’d collected earlier, now strewn all over the adjacent desk in marked positions. Noticing their titles and no doubt recognising the open pages, he releases his hold on Solas before looking back at the mage with a raised brow. 

“You know, if you wanted to learn more about my homeland, you could have just asked me about it instead of digging through all the long, droil and dull accounts of the Noldorin, don’t you?”

Solas smiles again before turning back in his chair. Reaching over to pick up one of the dog-eared books, he places it atop the one he already holds and lets it fall open to a tabbed section. A crisp, detailed map of Northern Mirkwood and the stronghold that dwells there glares out from across the tome. An inset of notes scribbled on a scrap of paper stuck to its margins slides down the page, covering its native descriptions. 

“Perhaps,” he answers casually, finally, while glancing over the small and neat scripture he had just learned how to read. "But would your own tales and accounts not be biased as to what I wish to learn?”

Sliding around the chair to perch beside him on a cushioned arm, lifting one dark eyebrow and giving the mage a sprightly grin, the archer asks " _May I?_ ", but without further adieu and nimble fingers, he plucks the book from his hands. Solas relinquishes it without a fuss, having preempt the move. He only gives a fond and exasperated sigh as result, picking up the previous, heavy tome resting on his lap. He pays it no mind.

“And to answer your question, that would depend on the subject,” Legolas says, rearranging his limbs to settle atop the armchair more comfortably. “What could you possibly wish to know that you would shy away from asking me about?”

Repressing the urge to answer, ignoring the augury feeling settling in his guts, he focuses on the other elf. Legolas looks too consumed in the contents of his findings to notice his amassing nausea. 

It’s almost domestic, how content Legolas actually appears, scanning the page for something scandalous or silly to tease him with. Clothed in casual robes and resting in the eventide light, skimming through the Quenya text that Master Erestor had kindly converted to Westron for him, the scene holds a dream-like quality. 

The valley has gone quiet around them with the setting sun, fireflies lazily springing up from the undergrowth and hovering in the background of the approaching twilight. Nothing moves save the dancing insects in the air and the princes eyes roaming over the translated text. 

Solas finds himself admiring the sight, watching him without interruption, just enjoying being alone with the other elf for a moment as they share the settee and old scripture.

But without quite realising when, the peaceful atmosphere of the room had fallen away, the dread in his stomach rising once more. A somber mood had begun to creep in and snatch away at the serenity of the place. The small smile on Legolas’s lips fades away with the moment as he carefully closes the book, leaning away to replace it with the others atop the sturdy desk. The move is without sound or any force, but it feels all the same as his staff rebounding off a dragon's claws. 

Unfurling himself and sitting up straighter, clasping his hands loosely in his lap, the archer meets Solas’s gaze and he _knows_ that Legolas has realised what he is truly looking for. 

He looks… weary all of a sudden. It is the only way Solas can think of understanding the new set to his jaw and the slight downturn of his lips. The delphinium of his eyes now a pale, swirling blue, clouded over in resignation as he searches for the words stuck on the tip of his tounge. 

“Solas,” he starts, setting his shoulders a little more, and Solas's stomach begins churning all over again. “The magic that brought you here won’t be found in any of these old books. Dol Guldur… It was built upon an ancient and dark sorcery, not practiced or ever _used_ by my people. Its kind has not been active since the Necromancer dwelt there and The Watchful Peace began. All of this was many winters ago. It’s doubtful that any such source you seek in these old books could have conjured you here.” 

Everything narrows down to a fixed point in that instance. He feels as though leaden weights have been tied to his guts, pulling him down through the floor. They have spoken of this before, but each time feels like a new blow, a high pitched shrill clattering around inside his skull as it explodes on impact. 

“Then _what was it_ that brought me here?” he bites out, harsh an waspish. 

The burning need to connect the dots, to understand _why_ at the forefront of his mind, hashing itself and boiling over. A tear in the veil? A misguided portal? A lingering affect of the Inquisitor’s stolen power? 

“If it was nothing of my world and it was not the Istari or Sauron or your Valar, then what was it?”

Legolas sighs, looking from the assorted books to the verander and the scenery beyond, staring at something that Solas’s sharp eyes could not see. Perhaps regretting his decision to invite Solas to Rivendell with him. Perhaps for saying anything at all.

“Perhaps nothing other than that this is where you are meant to be,” Legolas whispers, nearly missable against the deafaning silence of the suddenly still library. 

Removing himself from the arm of the chair, the archer stood still for what felt like a lifetime, just out of reach, before slowly coming to kneel by his side. 

He looks up at Solas tentatively, taking both of his hands to gently clasp them within his own. It somewhat soothes the snarling beast inside him, the seething behind nashed teeth coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of pale fingers entwined with his own. The anger melts away as he regards the prince on his knees.

“What is it that you really seek, Solas? A way to return to Thedas, or to start over?” 

For a fleeting moment, all the years of their existence seep between them like a roaring wave, filling the chasm with the will of two ancient beings colliding. 

Legolas gently squeezes his clasped hands, before raising them to press a soft kiss against his knuckles. He leaves no room to respond as quietly, he murmurs, “Until you decide, no answer will truly satisfy you.” 

Then, Legolas is releasing him. His entire hold over him. Freeing him from the spell he has no will or ability to even cast. Truly _letting him go_ by taking a backwards and then a leap of faith - putting the strength of their bond up against the weight of a history he barely grasps. 

As he stands, he looks forlorn, but decided. 

“Think on it,” he supplicates, folding his arms around his own waist before turning his back to the mage. One breath after another, he lets his arms fall away, composing himself, then walks swiftly to the entrance of the grand library in a flurry of long robes.

Solas watches him go, instinctively trying to form the words to ask him to return, to stay, but a dozen, snarled up thoughts jumble together all at once, leaving him floundering in the wake of his departure. By the time he fights through it, Legolas has already left. 

Distant bells ring throughout the Last Homely House then, indicating it was the hour for the evening meal, but it does nothing to fill the void of Legolas's voice and his roiling stomach churns further at the prospect of honey cakes and sweet fruits being laid before him. 

Inhaling deeply, he flexes his hands, then forms a loose fist. While clenching his hand, heat blossoms over where the archer had pressed his lips against pale skin. Solas stares at the taught joints of his knuckles long enough for the sun to set.

Sitting in the silence of the now dark atrium, Solas grieves for the loss of it all. The loss of Legolas's company, the aspiration of it. For all he had _done_ and _sacrificed_ in vain. He had become the villain of his own story. How could he not want to go back? To fix his mistakes? Legolas doesn't know - doesn't need to know - doesn’t call him by his cursed name.

Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. He who betrayed the ' _gods_ ,' the ' _creators_.' He who tricked and imprisoned them. Legolas knows him simply as _Solas_ . A mage. A man from a far away land who rebelled against the cruel ambitions of corrupted Elvhen leaders. A man who sought vengeance and justice for the fall of his friend. He doesn't need to know the rest. The hatred, the betrayals, the murders. _Mythal_. 

There are always two sides to every legend and his is not remembered as it should be, not sang as the everlasting song of what could have been good and just.

He glances to the books gathered around him, the pages now cast in shadow and the words looking hollow in the growing darkness. Grunting, he picks up the previous title that had been settled on his lap and sits for a time, trying to focus on the open page. 

The words hold little meaning now he is no longer immersed in the answers. 

  
  


* * *

The hour is late, perhaps early even, as Solas walks through the Last Homely House without direction. Restlessness and unease urge him to keep moving onwards. _Forwards_.

The sky outside is dark with rolling clouds, gloom shrouding the hallway he walks with only faint flashes of moonlight illuminating his way, catching the swords and decor mounted on the walls in a silver wane. As he reaches the end of the corridor, he realises he has wandered to the Hall of Fire and the pale lunar light had morphed to the flickering reds and yellows of an open flame.

All is quiet in the usually bustling antechamber, still asides some motes floating in the air and several grand statues cast to life by the shadows of the fire. 

He catches sight of another silhouetted against the fireplace and after a moment of observing, he realises that it’s Legolas sitting before the great hearth. Golden light from the everlit bonfire shimmers playfully in his hair. 

Standing between the ornate doors of the vestibule, on the precipice of uncertainty, Solas attempts to make the decision of whether to approach him or not. 

On reflection, he finds it wildly ironic that he can face down an army of Qunari, monsters and darkspawn without worry, but can't muster the courage to take the few necessary steps to close the gap between himself and the beautiful elf silently overlooking some burning kindling. 

It's been four days since he last saw Legolas. Perhaps that was enough time for him to have been alone. For them both to have been alone.

Without a plan and only half of his mind made up, he moves to cross the impossible chasm between them, but everything he wants to say jumbles up and cloggs against the back of his teeth as he catches sight of a small glass of red wine dangling precariously from the Sindarin elf’s fingers. A half empty bottle of Dorwinion sits unassumingly by his feet. 

He knows Legolas is aware of his presence by now, but he continues to ignore him, staring into the depths of his rounded glass. He swirls it, watching the sloshing liquid as it's pale colouring distorts and reflects red in the firelight.

An electric charge ripples and tenses in the air between them. Something raw takes up residence in Solas’s chest. He crosses the room to sit upon the same bench as the other elf, then reaches out slowly. Receiving no rebuttal or means of protest, he gently takes hold of the loosely held wine glass precariously hanging from Legolas's fingers.

The notion to re-fill the glass and have a drink himself occurs, but he dismisses the thought just as quickly. Instead, he carefully replaces the chalice on the floor besides it's matching bottle. With very little force, he takes Legolas’s now empty hand, pulling on it until the prince looks away from the empty space between the floor and the fire to face him.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding?” he parodies, hopeful, but his teasing falls flat in the charged atmosphere. Legolas looks back to the place he had been nursing his half-drunk glass. 

"I have been consulting with my Lady Arwen about her upcoming travels to Lothlorien,” he states, voice rusty and thick. Distant. “She has confided in me that she would prefer to have the company of a friend traveling with her to the Golden woods, rather than her Lord father’s guards escort her there. I..” he pauses, attempting to repress a small twitch in his cheek, but Solas notes it all the same. “I have volunteered my services.”

Solas feels his brows scrunch up as his jaw works from side to side, surprise and fear clawing at his innards, pulling them apart. 

Feeling as though his throat is closing up around the idea of speaking his name, Solas clutches at his hand instead. It feels like he's drowning in all the things he needs Legolas to know - every desperate, little, needy emotion snaring against the back of his tounge.

Aggrieving, he finally responds, “And then, Legolas?”

Inexorably slowly, Legolas pulls his hand out of Solas’s grasp, looking almost longingly at the bottle by the foot of their bench. The great bonfire suddenly does very little to ward off the sudden chill in his bones.

“My King has expressed that he wishes for me to return to the border - to resume my duties as Prince and Capitan. I have not given him my answer yet, but it will be expected before I depart for Lothlorien.” 

Of course. Once over the Misty Mountains, Mirkwood was near enough a straight hop and skip away. A few days ride at most.

Fighting against the downward spiral of his plummeting emotions and weathering the crash and splintering pieces jutting out through his heart, Solas slides along the bench to gently place a hand on Legolas's knee, attempting to refocus his attention as much as to brace himself. 

He feels as though he is wheezing raggedly, his head spinning from vertigo, but there are no other sounds in the grand hall besides the crackling firewood. Legolas is barely a steady fixture against the revolving walls.

“When do you leave?” he chokes out. 

"A week hence. I will have to send my response by hawk. Soon.”

A hot little bubble rises up his chest, dragging its way along the back of his neck to catch in his throat. It was so uncomfortable that his hand tightens like a coil around the knee he holds before he could control himself. Legolas did not flinch or move away, only looks to his face with uncertainty. 

The echo of opportunity knocks like a raspy whisper against his core, alerting him that his time is short. He _has_ to speak his mind now, before he loses this moment to set everything between them right. Perhaps forever.

“I’ve been contemplating what you said, Legolas. I have spoken with Mithrandir about it. I have even held council with Lord Elrond.” 

Delphinium-blue eyes lock onto his, a vivid gleam bursting from the depths of his feä, completely overtaking his face.

Solas shakes his head twice with a tiny smirk. "I will not bore you with the details and logistics of what Lord Elrond felt the need to _explicitly_ explain to me on how unlikely such a thing is to occur again.” 

Legolas reacts as he hopes; with a cheeky smile and quiet laugh, and for a moment, it feels like everything is as it should be. But the cracks reappear instantly and it vanishes all over again. 

Legolas pulls away, his knee slipping from beneath Solas's lax grasp, severing all contact between them.

“And yet, if they were to…” he starts, but cuts himself off, tense and barely breathing besides him. Legolas meets his eyes once more and it stings to see them gleaming and wet. He licks his lips and even bites them before starting again, heaping another doubt at his door. “..would you return to your homeland, Solas?”

How to answer such an impossible question? 

He had taken the name Solas when he had nothing but wrath and sadness within, when he was filled with a just sense of anger. 

Once, it meant _pride,_ and that was something he always strove to have. Pride in himself, in his ideas, in his acts of restoration, in his people who were starting to ruin the song that kept the heavens and the Fade on earth. But was the cost worth it: The fact that Arlathan would remain a ruin? The friendships that he had lost, the lives he had taken? The betrayal in the Inquisitors eyes and the sadness that reverberated throughout Cole's compassionate spirit the last time he had seen them?

What would it even mean to return after all this time? To pick up where he left off in the name of vengeance? For an old friend long dead and forgotten by the people he was trying to lift up?

Within this new world filled with curious and empathetic elves, so different from those he had known before, he was openly embraced as one of their own. He had been inducted into their culture, taught their language and customs. Over time, he had even become a valued member of their society. A friend to the crown.

The night Legolas had found and intervened in his ambush had become the blank slate he needed. The open invitation to everything that now _was_. 

Solas twists on the bench to face his prince. Bending forwards, close against him, resting their foreheads together, he allows them both just a moment to gather themselves. To be themselves in the middle of the night. 

Long, golden hair falls around them in soft waves as Legolas recuperates the gesture, tilting his head against the mages ever so slightly, creating a pale curtain that cuts off the outside world so that it's only _them_. 

"Both Lord Elrond and Gandalf seem to believe that it is unlikely I will be able to return to Thedas, near impossible in fact, unless the exact same occurrences that brought me here repeat themselves. And... even if they did... it appears that there are now many things that tie me to Arda. Namely, a certain Prince, who's world has become my home.”

It feels right to say. _Is_ the right thing to say. The weight of the past feels like it just drops from his shoulders. Like he can suddenly _breathe_ again.

But Legolas pulls back, and for one painful second Solas's throat close up, paralyzes him, before he realises that it is so Legolas can shift closer. 

The Sindarin turns fully towards him and lifts a slightly trembling hand to push the collar of his tunic aside. Trailing one hand along his neck, then behind his ear, Legolas holds the back of his head steady. The thumb from his other hand swipes across his cheek, just below his eye.

"Do you mean it?" Legolas whispers, voice barely carrying over the whorl of dancing flames before them.

Sinking sideways, Solas wraps himself around the archer, bending to nose at Legolas's temple. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the hairline he finds there. Finally, feeling content and at peace in the warm glow of the fire with Legolas curled up in his embrace, he settles his chin atop the blonde's head, inhaling the soft fragrance of his hair as they both watch the rolling fire burn brightly.

“Yes," he answers, after another inhale. "Even if I could return, it would not be the same without you.”

* * *

It’s quiet throughout Rivendell as a small host of elves gather in the courtyard, checking their armour and weapons, readying their steeds. The only sound is that of quiet chatter scattered throughout the company and the assembled horses snorting through their wide nostrils with great gusts of air, hooves _clip-clopping_ as they trott in place with anticipation.

Although each of the elves are dressed differently, they all wear similar colours – dark fir green and bark coloured tunics, undershirts of varying lighter hues and doeskin trousers. They all have short, undecorated bows upon their equally unornamented quivers. They would blend in well with the flatlands and surrounding forest's they were to pass through, outfitted as they were.

A dappled, white mare butts her head against her rider's shoulder, eagerness in her posture as she counts in place while he prepares her saddle for their arduous journey ahead. The sight is met with laughter and banter, one of the leading scouts calling out, “Make sure the girth is actually belted this time! You’ll look like a fool falling off your horse, saddle and all, before your Prince and Lady!”

At that, Solas looks over the mixed company, distantly acknowledging Arwen across the courtyard who is watching the scene too. As she speaks with her father and twin brothers, saying her farewells with a lovely smile full of grace and love, Legolas enters the courtyard.

He leads a tall thoroughbred and a young andalusian from the stables with a gentle tug on their reigns, guiding the duo towards the Pheredil family. With a soft word, he stops the horses, tucking the fine leather of their reigns around their saddle horns, trusting the proud elven horses to remain in place as he checks them over.

Slyly, he slips the thoroughbred a sugarcube from the inner pocket of his tunic, going over the knots beneath the flaps of his saddle to ensure his _'last-resort'_ long knives are in place. 

Solas finds himself grinning at the subtle show of affection Legolas puts on for his mount, climbing down the steps towards him with a notable spring in his step. Some scouts chortle, but he ignores them, eyes only on Legolas as he turns his head at his approach. The small smile on Legolas's lips becomes deviant in a heartbeat as the mage bears down on him with a few quick strides, exhilaration like lighting striking through his being at the expression on his lovely face. 

Legolas pat's the strong neck of his horse as he turns to meet him, leaning back against the compact bulk of her wiry frame with confidence. He knows she will bear his weight without complaint. As Solas comes even closer, he finds himself thankful of the trust horse and rider have in one another. 

He does not stop though. He couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to. Ignoring all the pomp and formality required to announce himself - he matches Legolas's deviant smile and crowds him. 

Looping his arms around the prince's armoured chest without warning, he pulls him away from his mare and against himself. The first rays of dawn cast a halo over them both as they stand in embrace, pink streaks of the sunlight coloured sky overhead highlighting their pale skin. Both are aware of but ignore the soft laughs and jibes from the guards at their expense. Both know the scene they must cut.

Legolas's smile becomes soft, no doubt listening to the other elves joking and praising tones around them. Juxpositionally, he tightens his arms ever so slightly around the mage's hips. Almost conspiratorially. Solas cannot find it within himself to mind. He even pulls Legolas closer against himself.

"Have you decided to travel with us after all?” Legolas teases, draping his arms around his waist. A warm hand trails upwards, settling against the middle of his back. Solas sighs quietly and leans into it.

The andalusian besides them snorts unexpectedly, stomping his hooves with impatience. Solas reluctantly pulls away, but does not move far. He sneaks a hand into the prince's tunic and retrieves one of the sugarcubes concealed there, ignoring the mildly pleased and shocked expression Legolas gives him.

He rubs the snout of the pretty stallion whilst feeding him the treat, earning a little whinny for his efforts. Legolas watches it all unfold, his expression becoming easy and soft all over again.

“I have come to see you off," Solas reveals, pretending to check over the bridle's fastenings whilst the horse munches its treat, as if he knows a single thing about riding. "You would be no good to the Lady Arwen if I decided to travel with you. You would be distracted the entire journey.”

Legolas snortles next to him, brushing his hands against Solas's to nudge him out of the way. He goes without resistance, allowing Legolas to finish a complete cursory check of all the stallions tack and equipment. Lifting the flaps of the saddle, he checks another set of hidden blades, matching those tied to his own horse with a quick tug.

“You flatter yourself, thinking you fill my thoughts so," Legolas _tssks_. It startles a huff of a laugh from the mage - part relief and part surprise. 

Blue eyes lift from the swords harness, shifting over his shoulder to the stairs behind them. Solas follows his line of sight, watching as Arwen descends away from her family and home. Lifting the thick robe of her intricately chain-plaited skirt so that it doesn't catch the linen of her travelling clothes, thick riding boots peak out from beneath it's folds. Legolas nods absentmindedly at the choice of outfit.

As she approaches, her stallion takes note and turns to trott over the short distance towards her. Legolas follows suit, in sync and step-for-step with the white horse. She greets them both with a radiant smile.

Both elves simultaneously place their hands on one another's shoulders in the traditional manner of greeting, an easy familiarity settling in place between the old friends.

"Are you ready, Arwen?" Legolas asks, squeezing her shoulder gently. His question isn't weighted, just filled with honest concern. After all, her visit to the Golden Woods would last several years - this trip could be the last time they see one another for decades. Solas cannot bring himself to feel the original begrudging thoughts that plagued him as they ready themselves for her grandparents land. 

"Yes," she nods, full of grace and poise. "Thank you for doing this with me, _mellon-nin._ " 

Her lithe hand grips the leather pauldron guarding Legolas's shoulder firmly, before falling away. The moment she notices Solas, artemisia-silver eyes take in his full measure.

The Evenstar's expression does not morph or change, but he feels as though she has sucker punched him in the guts, as though she has exposed his heart and tied it to sinking stones, leaving him bereft and open - reading his mind as easily as her grandmother before her. Until, just as suddenly, she releases him, breaking away from the mage to look back at her eldest friend with a radiant smile.

She leans forwards, waves of ebony dark hair fluttering in the breeze, whispering privately to the archer. Solas catches her teasing tone but nothing else. 

With that, she pulls away, a kind smile on her soft lips as she turns her back on the pair of them. Hooking her foot in the stirrup, she hoists herself up and makes to leave. A small wave of noise follows the move. Rustling armour, creaking leather and clattering steel fills the courtyard as the company of Noldor guards follow their Lady's example and mount up.

No longer holding the Evenstar's attention or pinned under her stare, Solas and Legolas turn to one another. The prince is the first to make a move - walking slowly back towards his horse, regarding him with bright eyes all the while.

Feeling both warm and wanted under Legolas's gaze, his breath catches in the back of his throat, his nerves skittish and jumping as he awaits the inevitable approach. When he's within arm's reach, Solas offers his hand out to the prince, palm upturned.

Legolas takes it without hesitation, accepting the lift, and pushes up onto his horse. His Silvan company repeat the motion.

As he shifts into a comfortable position atop his saddle, herubs the side of his mare's mane reassuringly. Then, he leans over her and down towards him, crooking a finger to beckon his approach.

And Solas does, feeling his heart swell to twice its size at the gesture, unable to resist the pull. He pushes his fingers up through Legolas's hair from the base of his skull to the top of his head. He leans into the touch with a hum, long, dark lashes fluttering shut.

Legolas's zest for life extends to all things and he always kisses Solas like it's a new, exciting thing, like he can't wait to do it again. Thid us no different. Their kiss is sweet, eager and full of joy. Legolas's passion is infectious and Solas can't help but kiss him back with as much as he is given.

When they break apart with a soft smack of their lips, Legolas whispers, "Will you still be here when I return?"

Looking up at the woodland prince with a level stare,. Solas flatly answers, "No..."

He can almost see the way Legolas's heart trembles in his ribcage, on the verge of fracturing, the agony of not knowing if he could trust Solas swimming like a chaotic cesspool between them. He feels the _latch-hook-snare_ of doubts clawing at him as Legolas wearily regards his carefully blank face, the hurt building up and ready to explode behind his eyes. He can bear it no more.

"I intend to meet you at our home in Mirkwood, instead," he finishes.

The realisation is slow to take root. The palpable sadness has only just ebbed away in time for Solas to piece himself together again, for Legolas to regain himself, to notice that he is being dragged forwards.

Legolas yanks him in for another kiss, this one bruising and messy. A kiss full of love and promise. Solas leans up so he can slants their mouths together, to return it properly. Blissful euphoria sinks into the very depths and marrow of his being. Everything seems brighter and lighter, as if it's alight and alive.

A sharp tug on the tip of his ear brings him crashing back down against the solid form of Legolas's mare. 

"Unless you want to be skewered alive with a rusty scalpel," Legolas threatens, playful and sharp, straightening his tunic and the wolf's jawbone hanging around his neck, "don't _ever_ do that again." 

Releasing his ear and pushing him away all in one, he sits up haughtily astride his steed. Brushing some imaginary dirt and dust from his armour, watching Solas with the same deviant smile from before, he clicks his tounge and spurs the thoroughbred into motion.

Solas finds himself chuckling, having no doubt that his prince would hold him to such a vow. He steps back from the thoroughbred as she goes, offering her an affectionate pat on the rump, urging her onwards to join the departing company of elves. He watches them all go with a fond smile.

"I promise." 

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been off work for a bit and made the mistake of watching Castlevania Season 3 without heading any of the warnings. Alucard's character arc has truly broken my heart, so I decided to move away from it for a bit and re-focus on this. I haven't put a lot of thought into it though. It's more of a vent to get away from work and my feelings. If you spot any errors please let me know. Feeback is always welcome.


End file.
